


Memory 16: Training

by TK_29



Category: The Old Monster of The Ruins (TOMR), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Duelling, Gen, Secrets, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 07:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20272483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_29/pseuds/TK_29
Summary: Not long after his coronation as King of the Monsters, Asgore made a decision that would impact him for the rest of his life. Perhaps a hasty, impulsive and scared decision, but that's besides the point. Though Royalty confers upon him many benefits and regal comforts, his life as a monarch is far from one of relaxation. Sooner or later he'll have to face the consequences of his naively pacifist demeanor. For such, he'll need a little helping hand from his brothers





	Memory 16: Training

**Author's Note:**

> Done as an art trade with KnKing on Tumblr, a spin-off story about his AU "The Old Monster of the Ruins" (TOMR). If you spot any typos let me know discreetly, please. Thank you for reading!

Saying the period immediately following the change in rule of a kingdom is “tumultuous” is an understatement, and with their forgotten underground kingdom it was no exception. A considerable mass of would-be throne pretenders gathered near nightly in vain hopes of seizing the ultimate power but, despite their seemingly fragile state, Asgore and his ragtag ensemble managed to… Well… “Convince” them to cease such attempts, and eventually all turned their backs to the quest for power and returned to their lairs, bruised and battered.

“And do not come back!” he’d proclaim, as tangled roots and twisted vegetation waltzed around him to the tune of his song.

Eventually, however, the unruliness subsided in the kingdom, and one and all accepted their new leader and King. Not before a coronation, of course, but such ceremonies were well outside the scope of understanding of the relatively young new monarch. Honoré, now the Royal Advisor, tried to explain, to the best of his ability, the traditions and honors he’d emassed and absorbed throughout his ages of royalty he’d expect to see in the official coronation ceremony, but to no avail. It was all babble and long words to Asgore, so their crowning was a discreet and homely affair. At least, for the good of their relationship, Toriel managed to convince Asgore to wear a crown for that date, though he would rarely do so ever again.

“Who knew a Royal couple could be so... cute.” Honoré whispered into Sofia’s ears.

“DAD!” As it turns out, long ears boast distant hearing too.

After all the pain, suffering and hurt it all seemed to come together now - Asgore’s dream was at hand, it was delightfully close. He’d go to sleep and dream of their new family - of the purple walls he’d paint with his wife, of the flowers he’d grow with his children, of the songs he’d play, not out of melancholy this time, but out of joy. He dreamed of the sunlight. True to his name - Dreemurr - he was tracing his path forward in his mind, as he cuddled with his Queen in bed followed by fits of joyous laughter.

“How will our first child be called, Gorey?” she giggled into his neck.

“Umm… Perhaps… Torgore?” he’d snicker onto her nose.

“Gosh, NO.” she’d cackle as they’d tumble in bed.

“Toriel the Second?”

“No.”

“What about Asgore the Second?” 

“Stop!!” she’d holler in a near fit of laughter.

Despite this, unnease stirred within his soul. He held a secret from his wife, from his family, from his friends. A whisper in his thoughts - perhaps his forgotten parents, perhaps his own - convinced him trouble would eventually find him, and when it did, he would be powerless to stop it.

He had, after all, managed to achieve a feat perhaps exclusive to Gods and weavers of reality. He’d shattered an abstract concept entirely from his palette of being. Like a deck of cards he saw before him the possibilities of his essence, and shattered his will to hurt. Without it, no harm could befall his wife and family… But it’d also meant that if - no - WHEN the time came to defend himself… Well… These thoughts eventually wandered off as he frolicked with his wife and governed his reign, but his secret gnawed at the back of his head. It was only a matter of time. He tightly held his wife, as if grasping the secret itself, in the vain hopes of concealing it from the light.

But secrets have a nasty habit of being discovered.

\---

It seemed now that every area of the Underground had revealed itself to be areas of prime relaxation, such is the case when not all those who surround you want to kill or imprison you. But despite all the invitations he’d receive to “gently provide patronage” to pretentious and well-esteemed places in and around the castle, his prime spot of bliss still was the waterfall. Long walks around the veilleuse-laden rocky walls always ended at the foot of a flowing cascade of teal water, and today was no exception. However he had taken along for his walk someone who, normally, is not all that keen on serene walks. And once more, today was no exception.

“And here’s that bush… Again.” Ömen grumbled.

“I really like that one! Do you see how these three blooms stand out like that? Almost in a heart shape?” Asgore knelt over the timid outcropping.

“Yeah, sure. Okay.” the bear scoffed.

“Oh my! Look over here!” he’d suddenly dash to another set of plants, Ömen stomping along disinterestedly. “These orchidée timides only bloom once in six months brother! Six months! We are really lucky!”

“Yeah. Woohoo.” he’d agree, simply out of politeness for his “small” ram/goat brother - though small is hardly a qualifier for Asgore, but everything is “small” for a beast like Ömen.

This would go on for quite a while, too long for the bear’s taste, but he’d indulge his new King for as long as he could, he’d earned it. But this was just too much. It was at least the 23rd time this week he’d seen the same bushes, the same lilies, the same goddamn things over and over and over… “He’s too soft” he thought. As much as he, admittedly, loved his new life in the court of royalty, especially considering the lovely Koala maiden he’d courted, he felt that craving for something more riské. Something a little more feisty. Flowers are cool, right, ok. Having a warm bed and clean clothes is… Yeah it’s pretty cool, but you know what’s cooler? Butting heads. Sword Fighting. 

“Have you brought Sofia here yet, brother?” Asgore interrupted Ömen’s thoughts.

“What? Oh no. I don’t think she’s as into this stuff as you are.”

“Well you ought to bring her over here at least once! You see that pond over there? The one with the Jonquille emmêlée? That pond is peculiar, because it has...” and he continued on his usual ramble on the shapes, colors, stem sizes, etc etc…

“He’s too soft…” Ömen thought once more.

“We gotta fight.”

He remembered what they used to do. It’d been months now, but they’d done it so many times it was impossible to forget. A devious smirk formed on his snout and his emerald eyes flared a faint glow. Tucking his right hand behind his waist, he felt the cold metal hilt of his personally-built dueling rapier. Asgore was too busy with his Jonquilles emmêlées to notice. Not that it mattered, as soon as he’d heard Ömen’s words he’d be sure to follow up their usual routine. The grizzly recalled the first time they’d done it, a long, long time ago. They were still on the surface.

“Hey you fuzzy brat!” he yelled, stancing for his draw.

Asgore still peered over the edge onto the water, motionless. No reply. The bear raised his furry eyebrow in surprise. Maybe it wasn’t loud enough. Yeah, that’s it.

“HEY YOU FUZZY BRAT!!!” he bellowed, specks of dust fluttering down to his ears from the ceiling. Yeah that was good. It’d been a while.

Slowly, Asgore turned his head around to meet his eyes with that of his brother’s. But it wasn’t that cheeky look Ömen was accustomed to. He looked startled. He stood up with weak knees. Unbeknownst to the grizzly monster, thoughts paced at break-neck speed inside the nogging of his brother. A terrible realization shot through the white-furred King at that time. “This is it.”

“W-What?” he stuttered, in response to the insult.

“En garde!” the bear taunted.

Ömen’s clothes were not fit for his weapon and certainly not for a warrior-gladiator bear, really. Upon unsheathing his blade, part of his orange-upon-brown tunic ripped through the air, victimed to the atomically-sharp green spectre of the blade. The air stood still now, Ömen puffed his chest, fur erect on the back of his neck. “This is more like it. Now, Asgore will go for the headbutt and I’ll miss my swing. We can improvise the rest.”

“Ömen, I-I’m sorry but I-.”

“AAARGHHH!” The unstoppable force rocketed towards Asgore in a bestial frenzy. He remembered what he’d done before, but his muscles froze. The very thought of it paralyzed him. All the while, a 500 kilogram mass of flesh and muscle hurtled toward him. Invisible hands seemed to grasp his wrists and neck, though flesh and fur betrayed not a touch. He’d become his own worst enemy. What a foolish idea it’d all been.

Ömen was too caught up in his charge to notice any sign of malady from his brother. He rose the blade high above his head, the emerald tint whisking through the dark cave menacingly. His grip was strong around the hilt. “I’ll swing down left this time, throw him a little something different.” was all he could muster in terms of actual thought in the midst of his simulated fit of primal rage. And so, distracted to Asgore’s condition he began his swing, that eerie whistling of steel ripping through the still air as his deadly slice came crashing down.

A fraction of a millisecond before the deadly blow, time seemed to decelerate for the King, and racing through the possibilities of what could avert his demise at the hands of his familiar a thought blinked in his ember and azure eyes. “I can dodge.” He had no time to even visualize how such a thing was possible before he clumsily threw his whole weight off to his left side, the green flash of the rapier slicing the hard stone beneath where he stood with ease. 

The impaled weapon left crystallized molten rock in its wake, the heavy brown-furred monster huffed a heavy breath. Both his emerald eyes and weapon glowed with purpose. This wasn’t how it went at all… It’d been headbutts after headbutts for years! He could take being beat by the boss monster, he could take being outplayed with more elaborate and well-strategized moves… But tricked? Never before. Asgore was taunting him. After all those years… Their brotherhood… All of it, all it took was a little title and a crown for him to snob his “old pal”. The intense physical labor had produced a scowl on his brow, but now it intensified. He craned his head, and met Asgore’s petrified gaze… Why you little…

“...Brat! If that’s how it’s gonna be, then let’s dance!” He yanked his metal companion free, and readied once more.

“Brother I can’t! I cannot fight! Please Ömen I-”

“Oh?! Now that you’re royalty fighting is too much for you?! If that’s how it’s gonna be, show me what you got, big boy! AARRGHHH!”

“ÖMEN, PLEASE!” it was no use, once more the bear hurdled toward him like a careening boulder of fur. Like before, Asgore barely escaped his assailant, ungraciously tumbling on the cold hard floor as his tunic tore at the friction of pebbles and cobalt-blue dust stuck to his fur.

Their improvised simulation of close quarters brawling had quickly turned into a fight proper. With every passing swing and thrust of the blade, Ömen grew more vicious and uncontrolled. Sweat flung around the cavern like the dust they kicked up, and Asgore’s rope shortened. Evasion had never been his strong suit, even if he'd spent so much of his life on the run, but he'd have to make due now. Upper slashes, downward slashes, jabs and swipes. Green, green, green. It was all he saw. Truthfully, Ömen had been on a fast track to lowering his LV ever since the coronation, and good progress he had made. Enough progress, in fact, to feign a feral fit. If Asgore was toying with him, he’d toy the goat back! In the scared irises of the King he could see his bluff was working flawlessly.

“Yaaah! Allez! YAAH!” he growled. Slish, slash, woosh went the sword.

Unknown to both of them, as they tumbled and jousted, a flower bloomed on their battlegrounds, and it blossomed its white petals unnoticed and uncaring, a meek milky glow barely noticeable, even in the low-light conditions of the cavernous cascade. But he who does not use eyes, needs not see to know.

They’d been battling for quite a while now, exhaustion apparent on both of their physiques. But the bear had always been physically stronger than any of his siblings, and it showed. By now, his rapier’s blade had been dulled and crooked by the constant bashing against rock, and Asgore’s tunic was in equally bad shape, though nothing extreme. A small wet spot formed under his armpit.

“Brother… I beg you, I can explain! Please, no more! Arretêz!” Asgore expirated, laying on his back against the rock.

“Hah… Hah… Let’s see you dodge this!” and nearly stumbling now, Ömen charged for his last attack - an overhead blow to the stubborn goat’s head. It would certainly not be fatal at this point, he knew this for certain, but it’d at least teach his brother a lesson in humility he hoped. But, unfortunately for the hulking, exhausted monster, that lesson came out the back end, as for when he stood not 3 feet from his target, a force seemed to clobber him right on his nose, like a 500 kilogram punch directly to his long snoot. Suffice to say, he was soon together with Asgore on the floor, stars blinking in his eyes.

A few seconds went by, before he laughed hysterically.

“Ahahahah! You little ram brat bastard! I knew you had it in you! Ack… Putain... That was one hell of a headbutt right there...”

“Can you two explain to me, exactly what in the hell you’re both doing?” An unmistakable, serene voice cut off Ömen’s praise. Shaa stood beside his brother with characteristic runic holograms around his hands. Forcefield… Of course.

“What?” Ömen groggily replied.

The polar bear presented in his free hand that which had summoned him - a white flower. It’s white petals curled outwards and shone with a delicate light. None could mistake it.

“Fleur saignante?” Ömen looked at Asgore, who now had regained some strength and sat upright against the wall. The small wet spot under his right armpit stained his tunic into a dark orange, the fur on his bicep was barely pink.

“Don’t you think we’ve all had enough of fighting, you thick-skulled buffoon?” Shaa queried his brother.

“It’s not my fault! He provoked me! All this walking through the waterfalls was driving me nuts!”

“So you attacked him.”

“Okay, fine. I got out of control, it was a stupid accident alright? But he refused to fight! It’d all have gone down much smoother if he wasn’t running away the whole time!”

“I CAN’T FIGHT!” Asgore yelled, startling both the bears. He stumbled afoot. It’d been, perhaps, years since he’d risen his tone so ferociously at them. But the voice had a different tone to it, not like a pure reprimand. Something else hid below, something afraid. “I can’t fight. I cannot even think about hurting… I… I broke it! I broke the… the…”

“Broke what?” Ömen asked.

“The button!”

To a layman, this would have been the ramblings of a mad goatman, and at first Ömen was unsure whether the regal life of royalty had finally scrambled Asgore’s brain, but one quick glance at Shaa’s tattoos and the memory came to him. A speech he’d long given to Asgore regarding their meaning, something he himself had forgotten. The King meant it. Somehow, he’d risen above any and all monster or human before him and pierced the very fabric of reality, he’d weaved his new destiny through sheer willpower, forcibly removing a card from his hand of fate.

Ömen simply sat there in awe.

Shaa smirked, and serenely as always said:

“So it is possible…”

\---

The injury was nothing noteworthy, really. Even a smidgeon of the flower’s potential was sufficient for a speedy and painless recovery, but that was besides the point. He couldn’t reveal his secret to Toriel, and discussing the matters at hand within the castle seemed too risky. The one place where they wouldn’t be looking for them would be their hideout around the garbage. After all, what kind of King would hang around junk with two weirdo bears?

“... So that’s it then. I will be King now, he’s no fucking use!” Ömen blurted, pacing around angrily around Asgore. “What kind of chance does he have if he can’t even pinch his attacker?”

“It’s not like that! I can still be King! I-I can defend myself!” Asgore paced around Ömen as well. 

“Oh yeah, How? Are you gonna ask them politely to stop, and start giving out hugs?”

The only one not pacing around at that moment was Shaa, who seemed content to lay on a dirty mattress between the two restless monsters, indifferent to their bickering, but attentive nonetheless. It was his old mattress. It was in pretty bad shape, but it’d served him well for quite some time in the past. It was also the one thing in that room that didn’t stink of Ömen.

“Alright, look. If I’m King, I’ll still let you call the shots alright? You and Toriel can keep your room, and do all that other cute shit you guys do yeah? So? What do you say?”

“I can’t! They’d come after you instead of me! They’d lose trust in all of us! They’d… They’d wonder what happened for such a weird decision to take place! Rumors… They… They’ll spread rumors and they’ll all know! They-”

“What does it matter? I’ll kick all their asses!”

“You could get hurt, brother!” Asgore begged.

“NO! YOU could get hurt! I dedicated my whole life from the moment you freed us to make damn sure NOTHING would ever happen to you! Up there, down here, everywhere! I made a promise, that I intend to fucking keep!” Ömen had ceased pacing and now stood face-to-face inches away from the horned monster, as they both so affectionately traded spittle... and glares.

“I am not a child, I can take care of myself! I’m not King for no reason, I nearly killed you back at the Savannah!”

“And look at you now! You couldn’t even hurt a fly if you wanted to!”

“Why did you do it?” once more, the calm mediator stepped in to make sure things did not heat up too dramatically. Shaa stood up on his filthy, ragged mattress he called “his bed”. They both turned their heads towards him, but his gaze was elsewhere. Sometimes it was hard to tell what went on inside the polar bear’s own head, when his gaze was simply a deep homogenous blue.

“Can you stop doing that?” Ömen scoffed at his other half.

“Only after you stop yelling.” Shaa bit back.

Ömen flared his noses in a disgruntled snort.

“...Ugh. Fine, whatever.” the greater half scoffed once more, arms crossed and facing away from his two siblings.

“Well then, why did you do it Asgore?”

“I… I don’t think I... “ he struggled to garner the strength to find the words appropriate to his feelings. Ironically, he found he was still capable of fighting himself. Not physically, but with his own thoughts, his own feelings. Incapable of scarring the flesh of others, he now turned to scarring his own mind. Mental scars can’t be healed by a fleur saignante.

“Well?” Shaa probed.

“I was so… Afraid. Afraid of hurting you guys again… Of hurting Toriel, or Sofia… Honoré. That night at the lions’ home, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for it. I’d lost control but… I could still see and hear. I saw what I did to you, to Toriel…” He’d now sat down in front of his thin white familiar. Arms resting at the knees and gazing down. Despite his best efforts and flowing golden mane, he did still resemble a child, even if unintentionally. In the end, he’d never truly experienced the golden years of his youth - that sacred bliss of innocence - having spent most of it on the run or in pain. Now that the cards had adjusted themselves into a neat house, that spark of naiveté flared within him, becoming a kindle.

“...that’s how I remembered your tattoos, your power, Shaa. For so long I’d wished for peace, I’d dreamed of home. I saw my true power that night with the lions, but it was pure violence... I wondered if I could only use that power to make dreams come true… So I focused on my dream of… Harmony. I pictured before me what those buttons you talked about would’ve looked like and… They just appeared… So I destroyed it, I destroyed my fight… Button.”

Both the bears simply listened unquestioning to his confession, his supplication for understanding, however, both still had difficulty in abstracting from what Asgore’d said. Perhaps it made sense that when describing the destruction of something as otherworldly and intangible as “your fight button”, the only person in the room to fully grasp it is the speaker. Ömen rose an eyebrow in incredulity, whilst Shaa merely pondered the consequential intricacies of such an act by his brother. It did not take long for him to reach his verdict.

“Perhaps, it IS best if Ömen becomes King.” He pronounced.

“Finally someone listens!” he laughed in satisfaction, slapping his stomach. “Alright, let’s go tell the others.”

“Wait! No, this can’t be the only way!” he promptly jumped back on his feet, placing himself between Ömen and the exit of their hideout. “Listen to me, I can do it, just listen!”

The grizzly had enough, his patience had been tried sufficiently. First, it was the walks, then it was the taunting, then the “button” thing. Now he still needs to listen to this? No, he’d had enough of it. He grabbed Asgore by his shoulders, and pressed his muzzle against his, a streak of seriousness finally washing over him. 

“No. Leave this to me. I must protect you.” he growled.

“What about our fight just ten minutes ago? What if I… Just dodged all the attackers, what if I-” he could not get his point across without being cut off by his large teddy of a brother.

“Do you think dodging will solve all your problems? DO YOU THINK I DIDN’T TRY THAT ALREADY?! IN THE ARENA?! IF I HAD STUCK TO THAT, SHAA WOULD BE DEAD AND SO WOULD YOU!!! I MUST PROTECT YOU, I MUST PROTECT YOU SHA-” his berating quickly turned into an incoherent rambling, so, the serene voice intruded again.

“That’s enough Ömen. It’s not your fault.”

The grip around Asgore was now a grapple more like, and small beads of tears had started to appear on the bear’s eyes before he finally let go and stumbled back, before sitting down on the mattress besides his brother. Shaa continued:

“But the point still stands, I do not see how you would be able to defend yourself or those around you with your ability to fight removed entirely from your essence.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell Ömen - what if I don’t need to fight to defeat my opponents? What if I became so quick and dexterous they could not even place a finger on me? You saw my fight with Ömen! He was nearly out of breath by the time he smashed his face on your forcefield!” Asgore replied.

“You can’t.” the grizzly calmly stated, submerged in his process of calming down. “You don’t have the reflexes and swiftness to achieve that kind of perfection. That’s the stuff of machines, and you’re simply a monster.”

“I’m not giving up that easily!” Asgore stomped. Fists clenched. Though now clenching fists meant very little since, well, you’ve read far enough into the story to get it.

“What if you trained him to be a machine, brother?” Shaa proposed to his greater half.

“What?”

“He’s no machine, but you are the Royal Engineer. If there is someone with mastery and knowledge of mechanics it’s you. What if instead of crafting a machine with nuts and bolts, you crafted a machine out of soul and flesh… That is, what if you could turn Asgore in an evasion machine. You’re also an expert brawler, those two skills could complement one another and help him.” Shaa explained.

“Well… I won’t say it is impossible because… I mean Asgore achieved the “impossible” already with his button shit, so… It’s not impossible, but it won’t be fucking easy.”

“I don’t need it to be easy.” Asgore defied him “I can do it.”

The air of the hideout grew still, the polar bear sensed that fiery glow of the boss monster’s soul in the pitch black of the surrounding ether. The grizzly could see the shimmer of the amber and azure in his brother’s eyes. Asgore might have been foolish, naive and somewhat ill-directed at times, but if there was one quality he undoubtedly possessed, it was determination.

“Then let’s go.” Ömen stood up.

\---

The following weeks proved strenuous for both Asgore and Ömen. While Asgore took every possible precaution to assert that his secret would be kept under wraps and steeled himself for his training, Ömen worked long hours on his workshop to devise new devices and schematics for his grand plan. Having to rule the kingdom and make sure none around suspected what he was up to and working extra hours on projects on top of his usual workload took their toll on both the monsters, but it was absolutely necessary for the survival of both Asgore and the kingdom, so they faltered not.

“Again.” Ömen would say.

True to his word, the Engineer worked up intricate traps that would push the King to the limits of his ability. Tripwire arrow guns, spring-boosted pendular counterweighted axes, spell-enchanted rooms and chambers, heat-activated wooden spike actuators, noise-sensing fly swatters… The list went on, but all this was topped off with frequent sparring sessions near the old hideout. When Asgore would usually have gone for his routine walk around the waterfalls, he went to train instead, running an ever-changing obstacle course time and time again.

“Again.”

This boot camp for pacifists came not without injury, though the devices were specifically made not to deliver fatal blows, an arrow to the elbow or a pebble to the face still proved painful. Unintentionally, this proved to be a rich source for the cultivation of the bloody flower, which Asgore kept in glass jars stashed away in one nook of his gardening equipment stash. Toriel would occasionally be suspicious of certain “accidental” injuries that her King came back home with. The usual excuse of “I tripped” or “I hit my head on the ceiling and fell down on an arrow” seemed like stretches at best.

“Again!”

Whilst Ömen and the Royal Pacifist danced and tumbled around, Shaa stood watch in transcendental observation. It turns out that both of their post analysis of the session would be biased in one way or another, so it fell upon Shaa to debrief both on points of interests, be it tips on how to flow one’s body more graciously on an evading roll, or advice on the right way to present one’s hide so to trick the opponent into a hasty and exhausting move.

“Come on! Again!”

Asgore ran through the starting posts, he dashed over the labyrinth of debris laid strewn before him. “Click” and a whistle. He ducked and rolled. The arrow wizzed above his head. “Clank” and a creak. He hopped over the dull wooden blade of a spring-laden axe that swished beneath him. A tight corridor, he nudged between the two cold walls and tiptoed to the other side. “Snap” and a hiss. He swayed his hip to the left and leaned his head to the right, the jets of steam formed condensation on the rock beside his head. He cleared the nook and slid under the sheets of metal that formed a low, narrow passage. He crawled. “Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tick.” He rolled to his left, a spike swooped and pierced the metal to his right. “Tick, tock, tick, tock tock.” He spread his legs, once more the metal above was impaled.  
Finally, the end was in sight, he dashed once more, rolled under another set of arrows, hopped, skipped, swirled.

“Time!” yelled Ömen.

“Fifty-nine seconds, three hundred and fifty-two miliseconds.” Shaa reported.

Asgore sighed, “just under a minute” he thought, “I beat Ömen’s requirements”. Leaning over on his knees he grasped for the air he’d barely had time to breathe in that mad frenzy before. A blade touched his back.

“You’re dead.” whispered Ömen.

Asgore collapsed on the floor ungraciously, bruising his neck once more. A small sprout of white petals emerged next to his chin. Another flower. Another failure.

“I’m dead.” he confirmed.

Ömen kept poking Asgore harmlessly with the tip of his practice rapier, in an effort to drive the point home that he’d failed. Not out of ill-intent, but out of a need to assert the points of inadequacies he still possessed.

“Shaa’s dead too, and me. Honoré, Toriel… You see what I mean?”

“I get it, now will you please cut it out?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear dead people.”

“SHUT UP!” Asgore growled and shot up, glaring at the grizzly for a few moments before turning face and stomping his way back to the filthy mattress. He flopped down. “This has to work, it has to!”

“...Or I can take over as King, your Highness.”

“That’s not gonna happen! It’s MY responsibility. But every time I come here, I return home with that damned flower! Failure after failure!”

Ömen ran a finger across the length of his blade, making sure he’d taken the dull one rather than the sharp one. He’d made that mistake before with Asgore. Not that it mattered, if he accidentally sliced his brother it already meant that he fucked up somewhere.

“My machines don’t lie, nor does my blade. So, I’m sorry to say, but that’s on you brother.”  
“What if it isn’t?” Shaa intruded, again.

“Can you PLEASE stop doing that!” Ömen shouted.

“Shut up and listen.” Shaa rose his tone, that was an unusual occurrence in its own right. “What if something IS missing from his training? I’ve been analysing you both now for quite a while. Asgore is really close to mastery, but not quite. His moves are expertly performed, his speed is second to none. But something is missing. You saw how the machines did little to phase him?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Machines lack intent. They don’t want to hurt anything. They are simply analog mechanisms that swing or spring, they have no mind or soul. His movements are perfect, it’s his prediction of the attack that is lacking. Have you noticed how most of the time he fails in the obstacle course, it’s through one of my spells, and not your traps?”

“Yes! Yes I have!” barged in Asgore, listening intently.

“That’s because spells are active agents, not reactive ones. A spring-loaded trap does not seek a target, it simply reacts to one. A spell will actively lie in wait for it’s prey, waiting for a weak spot, an opportunity to attack. Just like a human or a monster. Now, we know Asgore has some… Extraordinary abilities, yes? What if we can train him to look for that… Attack impulse. He has the moves, all he needs is to develop the feel.”

“... Alright. How would we do that?” Ömen impatiently asked.

“...I do not know.” Shaa stated, followed by a sigh from Asgore. “This is something I have theorized and thought about for many days. I possess that acuity myself, but I do not recall how it was instilled in me. I do not think it was a quick process, I hardly think it would be possible to acquire in such a small span of time like the one hour sessions we have daily.”

“Wait!” Asgore jolted up once more, like a snap of fingers a thought crossed his mind. It seemed silly and juvenile, but it was worth a shot. He spoke up. “You said “attack” impulse, right? Not a hurting impulse or a fighting impulse. Just… Attack?

“Yes. That is correct.” Shaa smiled at his young King’s understanding. “To give you an example, sometimes when Ömen is upset with me, he wants to tug my ears, but I always catch his hand before he can do it.”

Asgore smiled, held onto his brothers and huddled them close together, like a trio of delinquents plotting something naughty. “I have an idea…”

\---

In the span of a couple of days, Ömen had gone around the castle in a none-too-suspicious manner, knocking door to door. The plan was simple, whispering a few words into the ears of his subjects, he looked to instill within all the inhabitants of the Royal court the will to “attack” Asgore. Soon, all those who surrounded him plotted their nefarious offensives against the newly-coronated monarch. Unbeknownst to them, the monarch was all to aware of this plot, however, unaware of its details and like pieces on a puzzle things started falling into place.

“Good morning, your Highness!”

“Please Honoré, just call me Asgore.”

“Sure thing, your Highness. Oh!” Honoré placed a finger on the King’s chest. “What’s this?”

“Wha-” and with no time to react, the Advisor flicked his finger up his chest, striking Asgore’s snoot.

“Gotcha!”

The first day was a rough one, he had not fully grasped the intricacies of the “attack” impulse just yet, so he fell an easy prey to all the assaults played upon him by those around, all but those of his wife, which, unknown to him, had declined to partake in such tomfoolery. It seemed a tad bit childish for her tastes. Her father loved it though.

“Asgore! I’ve devised new strategies for training recruits in the Royal Guard, care to sit and go over them?” Sofia pulled a chair out from under the ornate reunion desk.

“Why of course. Let me get a pen and just-wOOAH.” he thumped to the floor, the oldest trick in the book. His seat had been snuck out from right under his nose. He just laid on the floor dumbfounded as Sofia giggled at the jape she’d just performed on her King.

“Sorry, your Highness. Ömen told me you lost a bet to him.”

Tea time with the Queen, hopefully now he’d have some respite. From dawn till dusk it’d been nothing but tugging of ears, booping of snoots and other such pranks. He had started to feel it, however. That will to attack, he could nearly visualize it, the same way he’d visualized the buttons like decks of cards, he started to picture in his mind the attacks as they occurred. 

They were almost outcroppings from the souls of others, small spears, arrows or pellets. They reacted with his own soul, almost like his fur reacts to cold, he went over this as he sipped the golden flower brew. Toriel had been quiet, too quiet, just stroking her long ears and writing a few notes. She was up to something, she was gonna attack him any second now, it was just a matter of…

“AAAAAGH!” the door busted open and a brown blur dashed towards the King as he sat defenseless mid-sip. He was knocked over effortlessly by the assailant, tea cup flung high like a projectile, before shattering on the ceiling as the King himself crashed down onto the floor. The beast lay atop him with emerald eyes, and proclaimed:

“MOTHERFUCKER, YOU LET YOUR GUARD DOWN!!!” Ömen bellowed. “I'LL BEAT YOU UP IF THIS HAPPENS AGAIN!!!”

While the bear berated his brother, Toriel took another sip of her drink and simply continued her note-taking. She sighed: “Eugh… Boys…”

By the end of the 2nd day, Asgore had been able to block one fifth of the attacks; by the 4th day, that number elevated to half; by the 7th it was two thirds… The plan had worked marvelously, his progress was exponential. Unsuspecting of their childish plan, the Royal Court had slowly turned Asgore into an unprankable individual. Late nights were spent brainstorming on new ways to trick the King, as a consequence of the “bet” Ömen told them Asgore had lost.

On the 15th day, none could put a finger on him. But that was not enough, it had to be repeated. And it did. On the 16th, he dodged new attacks and japes; on the 17th he masterfully predicted pranks he’d never even been victim of before.

On the 18th day, his true test revealed itself.

\---

There had been a jailbreak. During a routine movement of prisoners, a particularly ferocious inmate had taken advantage of a breach in protocol to shatter his restraints and escape, seriously injuring the guards. The staffing of the prison had been caught off-guard and the escapée managed to make his way within the castle walls. It was an old foe, an acquaintance turned vile enemy of the Kingdom. His fur was gold and with an axe in hand… Aimé.

Shaa was naturally the first to catch wind of this fact, well before any courier could announce it. And with it, Ömen was eager to demote Asgore and take on the lion himself. Pranks and the such were one thing, an axe-wielding, King-killing maniac was another. He thought the whole idea was dumb from the beginning, but no matter, “Ömen will take care of the kitty”. He’d beat him once before, he could do it again. But he had not the time to strategize his ambush before the King himself had made his way to meet his old opponent.

Their paths crossed on the verdant antechamber that led directly into the throne room. When they locked eyes, Asgore saw not the eager and methodical boss monster who’d attempted to forcibly steal the crown from Honoré’s dead hands. He saw something much worse - he saw the eyes of an enraged madman hellbent on a quest for personal vendetta.

“YOU!” his vicious snarl echoed through the room. “You little swine of a bard, you underling! You think that I’d just rot away on some nook?! You think I wouldn’t come back to claim what’s rightfully MINE?”

“I’d hoped you would have learned your lesson.” Asgore was able to mask his own unease through those words. In truth, he had no idea if his plan would pass the scrutiny of a real assailant. All he could do was have hope in himself.

The large feline howled a twisted laugh, the kinds that make cubs and fawns curl into balls and seek the shelter of their mothers. The ram boss monster steeled himself, Aimé’s soul was already radiating onto his own, a thousand tiny daggers seemed an inch from his own body.

“Such a child! You are unfit for ruling!” he stomped forwards, the milky orange dusk light from dancing on Aimé’s face as he passed the multicolored stained glass windows that flanked the antechamber. With each step, his true imponent size revealed itself. He towered over Asgore even from a distance. “I will squash you like the insignificant but you are, and when I’m through with you, I will destroy your little ‘family’ too! Vermin! Traitors! UNDERLINGS!!!” Spittle dribbled from his maw. He may have not possessed the untapped rage of the “black eyes” but his lunacy seemed almost equal to one who did.

The large curving blade of the Labrys shone like a weapon forged not days before… A sign of desperation on the part of the regicidal beast. All his chips were on his victory, if he failed, he’d be a broken husk. Asgore saw the reflection of his own irises on the conjured metal and said:

“I will not fight you.”

Though, again, this was only but a truthful statement from his part, like to Ömen, it came as a taunting insult to the round ears of the madman. The glint in his eyes gave away his purpose, and with a shriek from the depths of hell he rose the heavy weapon high above his own head for his opening swing. But wait… Asgore could sense it, the radiation of his intent. Like a bleached ghost, he could swear he saw the path the blade would take. Not a downwards one, but a diagonal curving slash to his left. It worked.

But he hesitated, it couldn’t be this easy! It was as simple as the harmless japes played upon him by his friends! The blade took its wicked path and had it been a fraction of a second more, the King would have been no more. He tumbled in a dextrous roll to his right, small locks of his golden hair sliced by the surgically sharp edge of metal.  
The swing was not over, he was already on the balls of his feet, ready for the next. Aimé rocked his weapon free in disbelief.

“Beginner’s luck.” he barked.

“I will not fight you!” Asgore proclaimed, more defiant this time.

Another fit of primal rage, another shriek. This time it would come from his high right, and swoop down below… It was so simple, so straightforward, he could not believe it! But lo and behold the axe swished harmlessly below his feet as he hopped, petals tumbling in the dislocated air. The lion enjoyed the momentum of his king-killer tool to combine the failed attack into another. Now a real downward swing, to crush the little pest bard and split him in two halves, but the ram monster simply rolled like a ball under the legs as rock shattered behind him.

With each swing; each attack; each failure, the lion’s insane desperation mounted and his efforts became less precise. His grip on the hilt became tight to the point of shattering it, his hypertrophied muscles buckled under their own weight. Shaa was able to observe the fight from his room and retell it to the other Royal subjects in the tiniest of details simply by the clouds of sweat that lingered in the air of the verdant garden.

“... You… Little… Bastard… I… I will…” Aimé hissed.

“Give up, I will. Not. Fight. You.” Asgore stated one last time, an ultimatum of capitulation for his foe.

This was the final blow to the sanity of Aimé. Bloodshot eyes revealed the last figment of strength he was about to unleash, tendons tensed up as steel cables. The hilt of the labrys cracked, veins of pale white energy spreading across the whole axe. An ear-shattering roar burst the weapon into tiny crystals, as the hellbent golden-furred foe refused to admit defeat. Follicles standing straight up, a raging blaze in his beastly eyes, he charged the ram with nothing but pure distilled hatred.

Like any good bard’s song, the real treat is in the ending. Asgore figured a fight must be the same. The athletic dexterity he’d amassed during the Ömen’s trials gave him the strength to somersault over the beast, as it smashed its head on a carved stone column behind him. A foe defeated without a single blown delivered or taken. Shortly after, the prison wardens dragged the unconscious boss monster back to his cage, where they’d assured the King they would take “extra measures” to ensure he would not try such a thing again.

And though the fight was observed not by any monster with their own eyes, rumors were spread around the kingdom about their Monarch’s ability, mostly because Ömen was so impressed that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about it. From here on out Asgore Dreemurr was not only referred to as “King Asgore” or “King Asgore Dreemurr”, he became:

“King Asgore Dreemurr, the untouchable.”


End file.
